


The Woods

by seventhstrike



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU as of season 8, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Incomplete, M/M, Purgatory, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:30:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstrike/pseuds/seventhstrike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a long work-in-progress I've been meaning to get around to posting. I started it this summer in between season 7 and 8. It contains a lot of my ideas on how Dean and Castiel get out of Purgatory. Once school started up again, I ran out of time (and muse, unfortunately) to continue writing it.</p><p>I have a detailed plan and also a lot of big ideas I'd like to incorporate, so if anyone is interested in picking this up and continuing where I left off, that would be great. </p><p>Also, many thanks to my great beta, Jonjokeat. </p><p>This is the image I'm using for Azrael's symbol: http://www.megadriel.com/symbols/black/0317azrael_text.gif although more can be found here: http://z8.invisionfree.com/Megadriel/index.php?showtopic=122</p><p>And for anyone waiting on "The Division," I have most of the next chapter written; I just want to make it a bit lengthier for my next update.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Woods

_The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,_  
 _But I have promises to keep,_  
 _And miles to go before I sleep,_  
 _And miles to go before I sleep._  
– Robert Frost 

The first thing that Dean notices about purgatory is that it is _cold_. The second thing he notices is that his skin does not prickle nor does his body complain. It feels as though the sensation is completely detached from the pain. He knows it is cold, but his body doesn’t seem to care. When he breathes, he can see his breath in front of him, fogging in little white clouds. When it clears, he can see a pair of red eyes waiting and watching him.

Since the portal was opened, they have not moved. All they do is watch.

He turns to find Castiel, but he’s still nowhere to be found. When they were shucked into purgatory, Dean tried to grab onto Castiel, and he was able to snatch one of his hands. Castiel held onto him, told him that they would not escape, and then disappeared. Dean has been alone since then.

He’s not sure how long he’s been here. The eyes have been watching him and so far, all Dean has done is walk around in a circle, try to find something to use as a weapon, and try to get closer to the eyes. They never move, but he’s never able to get any closer to determine what or who they are. They don’t blink; they just stare. After a while, Dean starts to think that they are lights, but just as he thinks this, they disappear.

He is bathed in the dark light that filters through the treetops, the light which defies all logic and cloaks the forest in shadows.

He starts to shiver. He tried to pull his jacket tighter, but it’s already zipped up and the sleeves are rolled down. He wants to feel warmer, but he isn’t actually cold.

His breath fogs in front of his face.

The eyes are back. He is still and tense, but the eyes seem to be relaxed. Even though Dean isn’t moving at all, it’s taking a tremendous amount of energy to stay poised and ready to strike. After ten minutes, he loosens up and stands a little straighter. He reaches for his gun, but finds that it is missing. Of course.

As he begins to straighten up, they disappear again. There’s no movement, sound, or other indication that they would leave. They’re just gone.

Dean sighs.

It isn’t for another few hours that they re-appear this time.

“Hey!” he calls out. The eyes do not blink. “Who are you? What are you? Are you—are you _anything_?”

The eyes don’t answer.

“Well fuck,” he says. The eyes don’t blink.

“Seriously? Red eyes? _Red_? Could you be any more clichéd?” Even though he can’t see anything in here, Dean knows that his face is twisted into an expression of dismay and annoyance.

Nothing.

Dean groans and begins to pace. No matter where he walks, he keeps his eyes on the other pair of eyes. For a split second, he could have sworn that they were moving closer, but when he focuses on them, he can’t tell if they moved or not.

“Fine then, don’t you put on the red light,” he huffs. He begins to hum the tune to “Roxanne.” The eyes don’t seem to be impressed.

This goes on for hours. He makes some sort of witty remark and the eyes refuse to answer. Eventually, he stops talking altogether. The eyes disappear.

Dean rolls his eyes and turns, but this time is confronted with a mass of some _thing_. He can’t tell what it is because giving it a form would be like saying a handful of glitter has form. No, not even that: it would be like saying _air_ has form when it’s all-around and all consuming.

It’s the eyes. The eyes have some sort of shape that is constantly moving, constantly changing, and constantly evolving. As Dean thinks to himself that the form looks almost like a cloud, it changes abruptly, as if to prove that it is no such thing.

“What are you?” he asks, finally.

“What do you think I am?” it replies.

Before Dean can stop himself, he raises his arm to shield his face and lurches back. “Holy shit!” he shouts.

“Hmm?” it says. Its voice sounds hollow and empty. Dean can’t discern a gender from the voice and even if this thing had a sex or a gender, he doesn’t think it would be male or female. It’s something else entirely.

Dean lowers his arm slightly, but keeps it up as a guard. He doesn’t know what the hell this thing is, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to go down swinging.

As it shifts closer, he notices that its eyes aren’t red at all. They’re pale and cold and seem to lack colour altogether.

Dean frowns.

“I am what you make me,” it says. Dean makes the connection and the thing notices this. It smiles in a colourful display of shapes.

“You’re a shapeshifter,” he replies.

“Got it in one!” the shapeshifter answers.

“So is this what you look like? _Really_ look like?”

“Yes,” it replies. “This is my true form. What you see out _there_ —” the colours shift and move and Dean understands it to be an indication of disgust “is me being filtered through a meat suit.” Dean wonders what the shifter considers to be ‘out there.’

“So that’s why your eyes flash—the colour and—you’re so bright,” he tries.

“And they always said you were the dumb one,” it scoffs. Dean scowls darkly.

“Okay, so that’s—great,” he says, his voice cracking on the last word, “but why tell me this? For all I know I could have been the one to send you here.” As he says this, he realizes that this may be some sort of elaborate joke or a set-up for years of torture. He clenches his fists and hunches his shoulders forward in an unconscious defensive gesture.

“Oh, no, no, no,” it coos, “I was born here. I’ve always been here. You can’t kill me!” It seems to make a giggling sound at the last bit. “It’s so cute that you think you could.” Its tone is scathing now, but still humorous.

“So you’ve never been outside of—Purgatory?” he asks.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no!” it replies. It seems quite adamant.

“Okay,” he replies, drawing out the ‘a.’ “So why are you talking to me?”

“You have a _soul_!” it gushes. “Don’t you see? We’ve never had someone like you here. You’re a pretty little gem, you are. You’re new and different.”

“Yeah, well there’s another like me. If you want two new and— _shiny_ —things, why don’t you help me find him?”

“Oh no, you’re the only one. Everyone else here belongs, but you—” it makes a clucking sound, as if it were a chicken, “you don’t belong here. You’re my treasure and I won’t be letting you get away any time soon.”

“Great.” Dean tries to keep his face still, but all he can think is that if he’s the only one that doesn’t belong, then that must mean that Castiel, an angel, belongs here: which means that Gabriel, Balthazar, Zachariah, Uriel, Rachel, Anna, and all of the other angels he’s seen are in here: waiting for him. Suddenly, this little slice of Purgatory doesn’t look so bad.

The shifter makes a movement that seems like a grin. Its colour shifts and twists into a waving line of mirth.

“Well?” it asks.

“Well what?” he snaps.

“Well how do you like it here? It’s nice, isn’t it? Quiet and dark. I like it,” the shifter explains. Dean shrugs.

“It’s err—nice, I guess,” he says, fumbling for some sort of word to express how he feels. “So you’re just going to keep me here forever like some sort of—of— _pet_?” he asks at last.

“Well of course,” it replies. It sounds perplexed. “It’s much too dangerous out there for you. They’d eat you up in a heartbeat.” It grins and its colour turns into white teeth. Slowly, teeth descend all around Dean and form a cage. He reaches out to touch them, but the creature screeches, “no!” and he stops.

“Don’t do that,” it says. It sounds as though it’s purring now.

“Or what?” he asks. He leans in closer, frowning.

“Or you’ll die.” The bastard sounds gleeful at this thought. Dean isn’t sure why, but he suspects it’s because this thing will kill him.

“How can I die? I’m already here, aren’t I?” he snaps.

“Oh no, oh no, not your soul. Your soul is still very much alive,” it explains. It sounds euphoric. Dean sneers, but doesn’t touch the teeth. They disappear.

“I think you’ll like it here, kitten,” it says.

Dean grunts and then looks down to see one of the white teeth protruding from his heart. The only thing he can think no is that the goddamned shifter was _lying_.

“I’ve always wanted to taste a human heart,” it says. He can hear it licking its non-existent lips. Dean tries to cry out, but he can’t make a sound.

\- - - - - - - - -

The silence is deafening. Or, it would have been if Kevin hadn’t interrupted it. It was quiet; but now it’s not.

“Sam, we should go,” Kevin points out. Sam looks from one end of the lab to the next searching for Dean and Castiel.

“What the hell?” Sam asks. He can’t find them.

“More chompers any second, Sam,” Kevin adds. His voice wavers. As suddenly as he hears the voice, his mind starts to work again. No longer suspended in the aftershock of the situation, Sam realizes that he needs to get out of there, _now_.

“Not to worry,” he hears. _Crowley_. “I have a small army of demons outside,” Crowley begins, swaggering closer. “Cut off the head, and the body will flounder, after all. Think if you'd had just one king since before the first sunrise, you'd be in a kerfuffle, too.”

“Which is exactly what you wanted,” Sam grits out.

“So did you,” Crowley replies, shrugging. “Without a master plan, the levis are just another monster. Hard to stomp, sure, but you love a challenge. Your job is to keep them from organizing.” Crowley’s tone is flippant.

“Where’s Dean?” Sam demands. Crowley shrugs.

“That bone... has a bit of a kick. God weapons often do,” he explains, frowning. “They should put a warning on the box.” His frown is sarcastic. Sam hates it.

“Where are they, Crowley?!” Sam shouts.

“Can't help you, Sam,” Crowley says, and snaps. Two demons appear: one on each side of Kevin. Each takes a shoulder and Kevin looks bewildered.

“Sorry, Sam. Prophet's mine.” Crowley snaps his fingers and the two demons and Kevin disappear. Sam stares at the empty space and then turns to glare at Crowley.

“You got what you wanted – Dick's dead, saved the world.” He doesn’t care. He never cared. He’s a _demon_ , so Sam knew this would happen: but not like this. They’re unpredictable. He knew this would happen. He’s breathing heavily now, his shoulders heaving, but Crowley seems fine. He never seems to get too riled up. Sam hates him.

“So I want one little prophet. Sorry, Moose. Wish I could help. You certainly got a lot on your plate right now. It looks like you are well and truly... on your own.” Crowley snaps and he is gone. Now, Sam truly is alone. He turns to survey the destroyed lab: covered in black goo and empty save for him.

The silence is crushing. It takes a few more seconds before Sam can even begin to think what to do next. There are no alarms and no sound. It’s desolate and haunting and he wants out.

He moves to the door and waits for a few seconds, listening and waiting. When he neither hears nor sees anything, he twists the handle and stalks out into the hallway.

By the time he finds a door that leads outside, the sounds of battle and screaming are growing louder. He slowly realizes that he has no weapons: neither borax nor a machete. If a leviathan finds him, he won’t be able to kill it.

He gently closes the door behind him and then peers out around the corner of the building. There’s the impala: wedged right in the middle of a sign. His only thought is that Dean is going to be pissed.

By now, most of the leviathans are dead and the only monsters left standing are the demons. Sam doesn’t want to walk out of the Sucrocorp lab in broad daylight surrounded by demons, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. He pulls a bottle of holy water from his jacket and Ruby’s knife. Somewhere along the way, he managed to hold onto it.

He walks through the parking lot and the demons eye him warily. For whatever reason, Crowley’s obviously instructed them not to hurt him. Sam supposes it’s because he’s no longer much of a threat; Team Free Will’s broken up and they won’t be playing a reunion tour anytime soon.

When he gets to the sign, he realizes that he won’t be able to move the car unless he gets it freed from the glass and metal. He looks around and spots a large rock lying nearby. He picks it up, surveys his surroundings one more time, and then starts breaking the glass and metal away. Once he’s done, he gets into the car, puts it in reverse, and hits the gas. The tires screech and the car shifts and after a few seconds, it shoots out backwards. He hits the brakes, shifts into first gear, and then drives off. In his rearview mirror he can see the demons are torching the entire facility. He smiles. Good.

\- - - - - - - - -

It’s been three weeks since the fight with Dick Roman at the Sucrocorp lab. The news has been awash with stories about Dick Roman and his many accomplishments. There are crying teenagers: recipients of his latest charitable venture; and there are friends and family expressing their dismay at what has happened at Sucrocorp; and there are other heads of industry expressing their grief. Everyone assumes Dick Roman is dead.

Sam, meanwhile, has been trying to figure out where the fuck Dean and Castiel poofed to. He hasn’t resorted to summoning Crowley; even though he’s sure the demon knows more than he’s letting on.

Eventually, he breaks down and calls Garth.

Garth’s phone number is buried in a pile of tiny scraps of paper in the back of the journal. Sam has gone through a number of sticky notes and business cards before he finds it. When he dials the number, a woman answers.

“Hello?” she asks.

“Uh, hi,” he replies. “Uh, is Garth there?”

“Yeah, hold on,” she replies. In the background, she can hear her calling for him.

“Yo,” the voice says, drawing out the vowel.

“Garth?” he asks. Does Garth even say ‘yo’?

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Sam Winchester. We hunted that _shojo_ together, remember?”

“Yeah, what’s up? It’s almost time for Mr. Fizzles’ bath, so make it snappy.”

Sam does. He explains as quickly as he can what happened after Dick Roman was stabbed with the leviathan-killing bone and Garth hums quietly as he considers the problem.

“So you’re saying that one second he was there and then, _bam!_ black leviathan blood goo?”

“Yeah.”

“And Dean and Castiel were gone?”

“Pretty much.”

“Why didn’t you disappear? Or your other friend?”

“I don’t know, Garth,” Sam replies, exasperated. “That’s why I called you. I need a fresh take on this.”

“Well, where was that bone supposed to send him?”

“Purgatory,” Sam replies immediately.

“So do you think it brought a tag along?” Garth asks.

“No,” Sam replies, but then pauses: “I mean, no—I hadn’t thought of that. You think it’s possible?”

“I dunno Sam, you stabbed a weirdo ‘leviathan’ (which I’ve never even heard of by the way) with some magic bone. What do you think will happen if you go around boning monsters, hmm? Little baby mutant hybrids is what!”

Sam ignores Garth’s joke and makes a face.

“So… you think they got dragged to Purgatory then?” Sam asks, unsure if he’s interpreting this correctly.

“Exactomundo!”

Sam frowns.

“So… now what?” he asks.

“Well, I’ve got to give Mr. Fizzles his bath,” Garth says, and Sam hears the woman chime in with a, “me too!” in the distance, “but we’ll talk later, alright?”

“Yeah,” Sam sighs. Garth hangs up. Sam presses the ‘end call’ button on his phone. He tosses it on the chair next to him and slouches.

Purgatory.

It’s like goddamn Pokemon and Dean’s winning. He’s been to heaven, hell, and now maybe purgatory, too.

He sighs and then opens the lid to his laptop. Within a few seconds, he’s connected to the Internet and he’s begun compiling information about purgatory.

\- - - - - - - - -

He collects everything he can on purgatory. He spends days at the library and only leaves when the librarians kick him out. Eventually, he finds his way to University libraries when he exhausts local resources. He’s sought out answers in every religion that so much as mentions purgatory or a go-between in worlds. So far, it seems as though the only way to get in is to die a monster. Sam isn’t sure if he’s ready to be turned into a vampire and be killed, but it’s a backup plan. The only problem is that once he’s in Purgatory, he won’t be in any better shape than Dean is.

He has nothing.

Meg is gone. He’s not sure what happened to her, but she hasn’t shown up on his doorstep. He’s not too bothered by her disappearance, but he could use all of the help he can get. Sherriff Jody Mills isn’t in deep enough to be worth bothering—and besides, he doesn’t want to drag her into this. The price won’t be worth it. He’s already called Garth and the only person left that might be sympathetic to his cause is Chuck and he’s not sure if he wants to see him.

Eventually, he caves.

“Hey, Chuck?” he says when someone finally picks up the phone. It’s the fifth time he’s called.

“Dammit Sam, this is the fifth time,” Chuck says. Sam isn’t sure if he’s drunk, hungover, or sober. Chuck always sounds horrible.

“I know,” Sam replies.

“Yeah,” Chuck sighs. “What?” he demands.

“You… don’t know?”

“Know what,” Chuck deadpans.

“Why I’m calling you?”

“No?”

“What about your visions?” Sam asks.

“I haven’t had any since about three weeks ago: when Dean smited Dick,” Chuck replies.

“Nothing? At all?” Sam is hesitant, but hopeful. Anything would help right about now.

“No, nothing,” Chuck replies. Now, Sam recognizes what’s wrong with his voice: he’s tired, but in a different way. Chuck normally sounds as though he’s about to have a nervous breakdown, but now he just sounds… sleepy.

“Do you mind calling another time?” Chuck asks, managing barely to get his words out between yawns. “It’s like 3am man,” Chuck adds.

“What? Shit,” Sam says, glancing at his watch. “Look, I’m a few hours away. I’ll be there at eight,” he says and then hangs up before Chuck can protest. Glancing around the room, he packs his books and his laptop in one bag and then scavenges the room for anything else. He checks his gun and then tucks it in the waistband of his pants. His machete goes in to a second bag and Ruby’s knife is tucked away in the pocket of his jacket. As a precaution, he wipes down all of the surfaces in the room and then carries all of his belongings out to the Impala. It still looks like shit, but he’s managed to get the hood fixed and has replaced the lights. There are still a lot of dents, but he can’t afford to get them fixed.

He opens the door to the passenger side, puts the bags on the seat, and then crosses around the front of the car to the driver’s side. He sits down in the driver’s seat and closes the door. He takes a deep breath and then another. He can do this. It’s not impossible; he _will_ find something. He then realizes that he still has to return his key. He swears and glances at the motel office on the other side of the parking lot. He drives over to the office, drops the key in a mail slot, and then gets back into the car to head out to Chuck’s house. He considers putting in one of Dean’s tapes, but can’t decide which one, so he doesn’t bother. The difficulty of making a decision is just too much to handle right now.

\- - - - - - - - -

Chuck is even less pleased to see him than he was to get his call.

“Do you know what time it is?” he whines.

“Yeah, 8am, like I said,” Sam replies.

“You look like shit.”

“So do you,” Chuck counters. “Have you been up all night?”

Sam replies with a shrug.

“Look, I’ve got some ideas on where Dean and Castiel went, but I need your help.”

“Can’t it wait? Look man, you can crash in the guest bedroom because I’m going back to sleep.”

“You have a guest bedroom?” Of all the things, this is what surprises Sam the most. He’s not even snarky about it.

“Don’t be an ass,” Chuck replies. His expression is sour. “Just… come on. I’m going back to sleep.” With that, he closes the door to the house behind Sam, slowly climbs the stairs, enters his bedroom, and promptly shuts the door. Sam hasn’t even taken off his shoes. He shrugs and toes them off and heads upstairs. He draws a devil’s trap on the floor in front of the door in chalk and salts each window and door and then goes to sleep.

He sleeps for five hours. By the time he wakes up, it’s because the sun is so bright he can’t even see. He groans and wipes the sleep from his eyes. He sits up, but stops suddenly when he feels Ruby’s knife digging into his hip. He looks around and grabs his gun from the nightstand. He’s not sure how, but he remembered to take out his gun before falling asleep but not his knife. Smooth. He takes a few more minutes to organize himself, leaves the room, and then trudges downstairs. He sees Chuck sitting at the kitchen table, still in his bathrobe. Sam keeps his one hand in his pocket where the knife is.

“Man, you slept for like four hours!” Chuck exclaims.

“Five,” Sam corrects him. Chuck rolls his eyes.

“Whatever.”

An awkward silence descends upon the room.

“So, uh, why are you here, Sam?” Chuck asks. His voice sounds pinched.

“I think Dean and Cas are in purgatory and I need to get them out,” he replies.

Chuck is stunned.

“So you think that’s where they went when Dick vamoosed?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says, wincing at the implications. If they are indeed in purgatory, he doesn’t know how to get them out. “There’s nothing, and I mean _nothing_.” He shakes his head in frustration. “I’ve been working my ass off for days and I’ve got nothing to show for it. I mean, I don’t even know if purgatory is real, but it’s got to be, but there’s nothing that makes sense. Purgatory is for monsters, not for… for _people_. The only thing that might be possible is in the Qu’ran and I don’t even know if I can use anything I’ve found.” Sam sits down in a chair opposite from Chuck. He rests his elbows on the table, leans his head on his hands, and stares down at the table.

“I have some books here and there, uh, I’ll see what I can do, okay?” Chuck sounds hesitant and Sam nods without looking up. When Chuck returns, he sees that he has a number of books on different religions.

“Why do you have all of those?” he asks.

“I was thinking about some new directions for the _Supernatural_ books—you know, Shintoism, Hinduism, Islam.” Sam gives him a questioning look. “What? It was getting pretty standard for a while there. Find a ghost, exorcise the ghost. Christian this, Catholic that. Time to spice it up!”

Now that Chuck’s been permitted his sleep, he’s got more energy than Sam can handle. Chuck picks up on this and quickly tones it down.

“Here, look through some of these books. And—here, look at this,” he says, holding open a book, which depicts angels in Islam.

“What am I looking at?” Sam asks.

“Just—look at the archangels,” Chuck urges him.

“Okay. Uh, Ji-Jibraayil,” he stutters.

“Gabriel,” Chuck supplies.

“Israfil, Mikail and… Malak al-Maut?” he tries.

“That would be Raphael, Michael, and Azrael,” Chuck replies.

“Who’s Azrael?” Sam asks.

“Aha! That’s where it gets interesting. Azrael is an angel of death who’s responsible for parting the soul from the body,” he explains. He pauses to let Sam take this in.

“Okay, so you think that if we can find this guy—Azrael—he’s supposed to part the soul from the human and give it to God.”

“Why haven’t I heard of him before?” Sam asks, puzzled. Chuck shrugs.

“There are a lot of religions out there and a lot of angels and dudes doing things. Maybe you’ve met him, maybe you haven’t.”

“Okay, so if he takes the souls of the dead and returns them to God, what’s he doing now? God’s been on vacation for a while.”

“Exactly,” Chuck replies. Sam waits for him to explain.

“Okay, so God is—gone, _but_ , he’s still gotta keep on keepin’ on. So the ‘returning the souls to God’ is probably a metaphor if it’s true. He must be the go-between for Death and heaven and hell.”

“So he’s been working on this for who knows how long ferrying the souls along,” Sam replies. “How does this help?” Sam asks. Chuck shrugs.

“I was hoping you could do something with this. I mean, an eternal gatekeeper of souls? What if Dean’s got trapped or something?”

Sam considers this information. Slowly, he says: “you know, every time I meet an angel or a demon, they comment on our souls. Monsters, too. Do you think that only humans have souls? I mean, the easiest way to get in to purgatory is to get changed into a vampire and die, but—that’s a bit risky. Do you think Azrael could do the soul-splitting and send whatever’s left to purgatory?”

Chuck shrugs.

“I dunno man, but look, it’s 1pm and I need a drink. Whiskey? Gin? What’ll you have?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nothing for me. I’ve gotta go. Can I take these?” He points at the different books strewn across the table. Chuck looks like he wants to protest, but he just sighs.

“Yeah, sure, whatever. Where are you going?”

“I’m going to find Azrael,” Sam replies. “I’ll call you if I find anything.”

\- - - - - - - - -

Sam doesn’t know what to make of it. He’s had to take a pause in his research to investigate something seriously weird. This is the third report and each time he sees it, he’s still baffled.

“So you’re saying that five of these victims hanged themselves? In the banquet hall?” Sam glances up from the file and to the trimly-dressed man in front of him.

“Yes, yes, now turn to page six,” the man instructs him. Sam flips four pages and scans the text.

“And three were mauled by pit bulls? One pit bull or two? More?” he asks.

“No, no, it says a _bully_ breed, not a pit bull.” The man clucks in disapproval. Sam doesn’t understand the difference, so he just shrugs. Whatever the dog, it couldn’t have made the same bite marks in all of the victims’ necks. Each so-called dog attack victim has only one bite on the neck: nothing more.

“And,” the man says, tapping his long fingers on the report, “look here. A man left the banquet hall and walked near the forest. On his way home, witnesses confirm this, he spotted a beautiful woman. Sources also confirm that he married this woman only a few hours later. A few hours after this, a police officer found the woman attacking the man. That was a few days ago. Now, she’s in police custody demanding to see him so that she can heal him.” The man raises his eyebrows. Sam does the same.

Each attack is an act of the supernatural. The deaths could be anything from ghost possession to demon possession or some folks who were driven insane. The dog bites are vampire attacks and the last one he thinks is some sort of woman in white, but he’s never heard of a woman in white sticking around after the fact.

“Well,” Sam says, clearing his throat. He pauses and tries to think of something witty to say. “It’s certainly unusual. Have you been able to interview the man or his wife?”

“No, they won’t speak to us. They may, however, speak to someone from the FBI,” the man adds. He doesn’t quite believe that Sam is in fact in the FBI, but the call to his superior, Garth Dahlberg, seemed to confirm it.

The man, Emil Serdar, gives him the address of the hospital as well as directions. Sam thanks him and leaves the morgue. As he drives over to the hospital, he considers the consequences of this finding. This is the third attack on a high school reunion in the last two weeks in Indiana. Sam glances at the print out for Truman High School’s reunion. All of the previous reunions had their information posted online. The first targeted those leaving the reunion, but the second and third attacked in the gymnasium and the banquet halls during the reunion itself.

It seemed as though it was time to go back to school.

First, he had to interview the man and his wife. The man would be easier since he was in the hospital, while the woman was being held in a police station. Sam wasn’t sure if he was ready to push his luck with his fake ID badges quite yet now that Dean wasn’t there to bail him out.

The thought had crossed his mind many times before then, but actually thinking it—that Dean wasn’t there—hit him harder than he would have thought. He unconsciously slowed his stride and a nurse in the hospital shot him a concerned glance. He waved his hand and sped up his pace.

He didn’t have time for this.

He located the room and knocked twice. From within, a man called out, “come in.” He stepped into the room and held up a file with a few fake sheets of paper.

“Michael Diaz?” he asked. The man raised his head and nodded.

“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

Michael was silent.

“Michael, I just want to help you and help you understand what happened. I know you’re going through a lot right now, but I’m here to help. Spousal abuse is a serious crime.” When he says this, Michael flinches and then looks like he wants to protest.

“I didn’t hurt her,” he says. His voice is scratchy; perhaps because she tried to rip his throat out.

“I know you didn’t try to hurt her, Michael,” Sam says gently. “She tried to hurt you. Do you remember anything from that night?”

Michael frowns.

“She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She was standing there in the mist. She was waiting for me.” He frowns and then abruptly stops talking.

“Everyone says she’s a monster,” he whispers.

“I know she’s not a monster, Michael,” Sam assures him. He knows that she most certainly is. “She hurt you and I just want to know why.”

“I married her. I loved her. I still do,” Michael explains. His voice scratches and Sam has to strain himself to listen more closely. “I would do anything for her.”

Sam nods in understanding.

“Why did you marry her, Michael?”

“Because I love her.” He sounds stunned that Sam even has to ask.

“What is it about her that you love?” Sam asks.

“I—I don’t know. Everything. She’s perfect.”

“Can you tell me anything more? When did you first see her?”

Michael frowns to consider this. He replies slowly. “When I was leaving the banquet. The hall is on the outskirts of a new development, so the parking lot backs onto a forest. She was just… standing there.” He smiles.

“How… romantic,” Sam tries.

“It was,” the man replies. He shakes his head and then looks at Sam, this time with a more focused expression. “I have nothing else to tell you.”

“Mr. Diaz, if I could ask—what’s her name?”

He frowns. “Her name? Well… I… I don’t know.” This time, he looks at Sam with an imploring expression. “Why don’t I know her name?”

“Mr. Diaz, please, just calm down. It’s okay, you don’t have to worry. I’m sure one of us knows.”

“One of who?”

“One of the FBI. I’m sure she has some friends who can help us.”

“Yes, her friends—the foxes. They’ll know,” Michael replies and then turns away. Sam sighs. He recognizes this as a sign that Michael no longer wishes to talk.

“Okay, thank you for your time, Mr. Diaz. I’ll contact you if I have any more questions.” He moves to stand up and he can see that Michael is still looking away. He wishes he could say more and ask more, but he won’t get any further with the man.

The Truman High School reunion is in eleven days: next Friday. He returns to his hotel room to gather his things and then dumps everything in the back seat of the Impala. The drive back to Indianapolis takes him almost two hours because he gets caught in traffic. As he leaves Terre Haute, he notices something white off in the distance. When he glances back, there isn’t anything there. He twists around in his seat, trying to get a better view, but eventually gives up. He doesn’t have time to go around chasing ghosts.

Once he sets up a new home base, he keeps researching Azrael and this new monster tag-team effort. He’s not sure which is bothering him more right now.

\- - - - - - - - -

He’s been able to map out a rough plan of the attacks. So far, the monsters have been picking medium-sized and small towns. The first attack was in Loogootee, Indiana at Loogootee High School. The town isn’t big—almost three thousand people—so it seems as though they were starting out small. Unfortunately, that doesn’t bode well in small towns, so the news was plastered all over the small town’s papers. The next hit was in Evansville, Indiana, this time at Reitz Memorial High School: a Catholic high school. Apparently only churches, not schools, were considered hallowed ground. For the third attack, they backtracked to the slightly smaller city of Terre Haute, this time attacking Thompson Lake Banquet Hall.

So far, Sam’s spent most of his time in Indianapolis driving out to Terre Haute, long enough to talk to the medical examiner for the case and then interview Michael Diaz. He returned to Indianapolis after that to keep digging and then he found that there was another high school reunion in Columbus in four days. It fits the pattern: all of the attacks have been concentrated in southern Indiana near the Hoosier National Forest. Truman High School, located in historic Salem, Indiana, would probably be the next one after that.

Chuck’s books provide the most answers. He wishes that he had Bobby’s books, but Bobby’s house is burnt to a crisp and 12 hours away and Rufus’ cabin is god knows how far away. Even the Campbell Compound is too far away in Kansas. So he makes do with what he has. Even then, he’s able to find out enough to work out a summoning spell.

It isn’t until he picks up a book, unmarked, that he gets his first clue.

One of Azrael’s symbols is the fallen cradle. It refers to life, which reminds Sam immediately of the so-called ‘cradle of civilization’: Mesopotamia. Whether or not this is where life began, it was a place of great humanity. However, unlike Mesopotamia, Azrael’s symbol is that of fallen life and subordination. The fallen cradle symbol is shaped like a sharp basket, as if the edges of the basket were pushed in. Underneath the basket, there is a line running vertically and then a smaller line that bisects it. It sort of looks like the symbol for venus, but instead of the crossed lines being topped with a circle, it’s a strange basket. Apparently, the book says, the bisecting cross line under the basket indicates that Azrael is subordinate to Uriel. Since Uriel is dead, Sam supposes that this is no longer true.

The book doesn’t provide a summoning spell, but it does explain that Azrael only appears to move souls to heaven. So where reapers gather the souls, Azrael is the last step before a soul transcends into heaven. Even if Sam tried to have that sleezy Dr. Robert kill him and bring him back to life, he wouldn’t see Azrael. If he was lucky, he might see Death, but he doesn’t want to risk it.

He’s stuck.

He spends two days poring over everything he can find online after he exhausts the books. He returns to them reluctantly on Thursday, conscious that the reunion is in one day and he doesn’t have time to waste.

He picks up one book that had gone otherwise unnoticed. There, he finds a section on Uriel. He recognizes one of the symbols and sits up straighter. He glances at the title, _Death and Angels_ and then flips back to the unmarked book with the symbol for Azrael with the fallen cradle. _Death and Angels_ has the symbol for Azrael in the section about Uriel.

He pulls up a web page and quickly discovers that Azrael’s very existence is questioned as mere myth and that he may actually be Uriel. Sam freezes and then, very slowly, bends the corners of the pages of the books and sets them on the keyboard of his laptop.

“Shit.”

He was pinning everything on Azrael and he doesn’t even exist.

“Shit,” he says, this time louder. Dean always teased him about that—he never liked saying fuck, but he would use just about every other word known to man. Even now, he can’t say it.

He picks up the book again and frowns. Maybe they’ve got it backwards: what if Azrael really is an angel and everything supposedly attributed to Uriel is actually related to Azrael? Castiel had always referred to Uriel as a ‘specialist.’ He seemed more hellbent on destroying than reaping.

It was wrong. The lore had been wrong in the past and the book provided a summoning spell for ‘Uriel.’

Sam grinned. He had found it.

\- - - - - - - - -

He arrives early. He arrives so early that everyone in the high school assumes he’s helping set up. He is, but in a wholly different way. He scouts out the school and makes a note of all of the exits. He then returns to the gymnasium, where the reunion is being held, and takes some time to familiarize himself with the layout. The decorations are quite simple and don’t block any of the exits. There are two sets of doors leading into the school on the north side, and then two sets of doors opposite the first two, which lead outside. They face the woods. The windows are narrow and set high in the wall . The bleachers have been pushed into the wall and there are no other windows in the gym.

He heads backstage and stashes his bag of weapons under a stack of dusty chairs. When he re-enters the gymnasium, he sees that people have already started arriving.

“Hey!” calls out a voice. Sam turns, and at first, doesn’t see anyone. He realizes that it’s a woman, clocking in at about five foot two, waving at him with a clipboard.

“Yes, you!” she says again. Her head bobs excitedly and her hair starts to fall out of a careless bun. “Jamie needs some help with the decorations. Hop to it!”

“I—” Sam begins, but she’s already left. He heaves a sigh and looks around. He spots another woman, taller, hanging up some of the last streamers. He walks over, taking his time in the vain hope that by the time he gets there, she’ll be done. She isn’t.

“Hey, you need a hand?” he asks.

“No, I’ve got it,” she replies, not bothering to turn around. She arches up onto the tips of her toes and tapes a streamer in a corner. She then scurries down the ladder and turns around. She looks like she is about to pick up the ladder when she freezes.

“You’re really tall,” she states.

“Yeah, I uh… get that a lot,” Sam replies.

“You could have probably gotten that without a ladder,” she says.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You could probably get it even higher _with_ a ladder,” she gushes.

“It’s just streamers,” Sam deadpans. She blushes.

“I’m Jaime,” she says and sticks out her hand.

“Sam,” he replies, shaking the hand. He turns it over and squints at it. There are patterns of colour dancing across her skin. “Henna?” he asks. She nods.

“It was my cousin’s wedding last week,” she explains. This time, Sam nods.

“So! Streamers?” She holds up the roll of purple paper.

“Uh yeah… where to?” Sam asks. Jaime points to the middle of the wall. Sam tapes them up at her direction, all the while wishing he could back out. Unfortunately, the petite woman has him identified as a willing and able volunteer and he’s stuck helping Jaime. He supposes it’s not too bad; he hasn’t really been able to talk to anyone besides Chuck and Garth and they’re not the best company. Chuck is all doom and gloom and Garth is too tied up with his lady friend. Sam doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s lonely. Being at a high school reunion for a school he never attended only serves to compound this.

“So… Sam.” Sam swings around, and in the process, nearly decks someone with a flying hand.

“Shit! I mean, shit, sorry man,” he says.

“No uh… no problem, dude,” the guy replies nervously. Before Sam can say anything else, the man scuttles off.

“Distracted?” Jaime asks.

“A little,” Sam confesses. “Being back here is weird, y’know? Feels like it’s been forever.” _Or never_.

“So which year did you graduate?” she asks.

“Well, I never really stayed long. I was only here for a month at most,” he replies, the lie rolling off his tongue with ease.

“Oh.” She sounds disappointed.

“Look Jaime, I’ll be right back. I’m expecting a call.” He pulls out his cellphone and holds it up, as if it’ll prove his point.

“Oh! Yeah, sure, totally, see you around?”

Sam nods.

He quickly backtracks to behind the stage. He was able to salt the windows before anyone else arrived, but he’s still got a few back entrances to cover. To make sure no humans mess things up, he bars them with a few chairs and a sheet he found. Hopefully no one will notice there’s a door (and salt) behind. To be on the safe side, he sprays a devil’s trap at every door. The other doors in the school are trickier. There’s no way he could just spray devil’s traps or draw salt lines across all of the doors, so instead, he has to get creative. He wraps salt in tape and taped it across the floor so that it would look like it was wires taped down. He tapes the salt across the doorline, too. He opens the door and the taped salt stays in place; success.

Once he’s done the preparations, he returns to the auditorium. By now, guests have started arriving, music is playing, and a live band is setting up.

“Sam!” He turns and sees Jaime. Beside her are three other women, all of whom he realizes have been staring at him since he walked in. He shifts uncomfortably under their attention. They look like they’re either sizing him up or getting ready to eat him; he’s not sure which is more frightening.

Jaime walks over, the other women trailing her, giggling. They all look like they are in their early and mid-twenties. Each has a glass of punch in her hand.

“This is Sam; he helped me with the decorations,” Jaime says, resting her hand gently on his elbow. Sam gives them a small wave.

“Hi,” he says.

“Sam, this is Pascale, Emily, and Jennifer.” Each girl says hello as well.

“So Sam, when did you come to Columbus High?” one of them asks. He thinks it’s Pascale. Her voice has a bit of an accent.

“Uh,” Sam stalls, trying to think of when he’d been at Truman, “nineteen ninety seven.”

“Oh, we graduated in two thousand!” another says. Jennifer, he’s pretty sure.

“Oh, yeah, uh… great,” Sam replies.

“Sam was only here for a month,” Jaime explains. This doesn’t seem to help.

“I moved around a lot, so a month was the longest I was at one school. When I heard there was a reunion, I thought I’d stop by.” He hopes that this helps alleviate the confusion. Instead, Jennifer gives him a sad, almost puppyish look. He wonders if this is what he looks like when Dean accuses him of making puppy eyes. It’s actually a bit sad and a little distressing—he feels bad for the woman until he realizes she’s feeling bad for him.

“So!” Jaime starts, bringing her hands together in a loud clap. She sounds like she’s about to say more when the lights go off.

Shit.

For a few seconds, there is absolute silence. Everyone is still, frozen, as their bodies try to figure out whether it’s fight or flight. With no enemy visible, it seems as though everyone will choose flight.

People begin to panic. There’s shouting and Sam thinks he hears someone walk into one of the fake palm tree decorations. After a few more seconds of darkness, a few spotlights start up as the backup generators kick in. He can see everyone is looking around, bewildered. Silence descends upon the group. In the distance, he can hear doors slamming closed one by one.

By now, people have put two and two together: they’re a target of the reunion murderers. Nervous chatter replaces silence and Sam can only stand the sound for so long.

“Everyone! Stay calm!” Sam shouts, but it doesn’t seem to help.

“Everyone! Shut up!” he shouts, this time louder.

Silence.

Sam slowly looks around the room. Everyone, including Jaime, Jennifer, Pascale, Emily, and the petite woman are staring at him.

He clears his throat.

“There are… there is something out there that wants to get in here. There have been three attacks on high school reunions. This looks like it’ll be the fourth.” He stops, but it doesn’t seem like it’s enough.

“Are you a cop?” someone asks.

“No, but I’ve been tracking this for a while. We’ve got to stay calm and stay away from the doors. Everyone, go backstage. You’ll be safe there.” The crowd of people seems skeptical.

“What if you’re one of them?” someone shouts.

“I’m not!” he shouts back. It still doesn’t help.

The doors leading outside clang open. Sam reaches for his gun.

“Hey there, Sammy.”

It’s Dean.

Sam moves his hand away from the gun and slowly slides it into his jacket pocket to extract a flask full of borax.

“Oh come on now Sammy, don’t be such a sourpuss!” he shouts. “Look at all these beautiful people here! Doesn’t this just make you want to live a little?”

“You,” Sam says, because saying ‘Dean’ would just be wrong, “turn around and leave.”

“Oh come on!” fake Dean shouts. “After all we’ve been through, don’t you think you owe me more than a ‘leave these people alone’ crap?”

Sam is silent.

“Wait, so it’s cool if you cut my head off, but I can’t even get a simple hello? That’s cold, Sammy.”

Sam pauses. “Edgar?”

“There we go! I missed you too, little brother,” he says. He’s grinning. He then notices the rest of the people standing, watching. “Don’t be shy! Everyone’s going to get a turn! It’s a good old-fashioned massacre.”

While Edgar is addressing the others, Sam slowly inches closer. By now, he’s gotten the lid to the flask off and he is about to splash Edgar with the borax when Edgar turns to look at him. He grins and pins him with his stare. Sam mutters, annoyed, in response, but doesn’t let it slow him down.

“No, no, no, Sammy boy!” he says. The words sounds wrong coming out of ‘Deans’ mouth. Sam replies with something low, under his breath.

Sam knows that as long as he keeps Edgar distracted and away from the rest of the reunion-goers, he might stand a chance. Edgar can’t throw him across the room or hold him up with invisible threads. He can still do this.

Sam inches closer even though Edgar tells him not to. He knows that Edgar is expecting borax. He can’t surprise him.

Edgar steps forward and then folds in two. He coughs, mostly out of annoyance.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he shouts as he straightens up. Edgar pulls the small throwing knife out of his stomach. He looks like he’s about to whip it at Sam’s hand when Sam withdraws his hand from his pocket and then uses his right to throw the flask of borax at Edgar.

Edgar screams, now truly in pain, and Sam runs for the stage, where he’s hidden a machete. The borax wears off too quickly and the witchcraft is barely temporary, and before he can get to the stage, Edgar’s running after him.

Edgar tackles him to the ground and Sam tries to kick him to get away. Edgar unhinges his jaws and the screams of the leviathan fill the air. Without any other options, Sam pulls out his knife and stabs him. It only gives him a second, but it’s long enough to distract Edgar. When Edgar lunges for him, he cuts his neck. Edgar struggles and Sam pushes him off. He runs toward the stage again, but Edgar intercepts him and tackles him to the ground. His flask has fallen somewhere and he can’t find it.

Sam slides into the wall next to the stage while Edgar punches him, first in the face, and then in the temple. Edgar roars and then leans down to bite Sam’s throat. Sam stabs him with the knife again and Edgar misses him by a few inches. His teeth sink in to Sam’s shoulder instead. Sam’s vision turns cloudy, but Edgar relents for a moment when someone hits him over the head with a champagne bottle. This is just enough of a distraction for Sam to lean back, grab his machete, and in three attempts, cut off Edgar’s head.

The room is silent. Sam sits up using the stage wall for support. The only sound to be heard is Sam’s blood dripping onto the floor.

He walks over to where the head has fallen and picks it up by the ear. It still looks like Dean.

He turns to face the crowd and notices a bloody knife is lying on the floor and the man who had hit Edgar with the champagne bottle is still clutching the remnants of the glass in his hands. He’s bleeding.

“Thanks,” Sam says.

“Um, Sam?”

Sam turns to see Jaime and Jennifer approaching him.

“What the _hell_ was that thing?” Jennifer asks.

“Well, more like what the purgatory was it,” he jokes. No one gets it. He sighs and then walks over to where the knife is. He picks it up with his right hand. He wipes the blood off the knife onto his jeans and then puts the knife into his pocket.

“It’s a leviathan,” he says, straightening up. “It’s one of the things that’s been killing people at these reunions.”

“Yeah, but what _is_ it?” Jennifer asks. “I mean, it’s face—it—it wasn’t real.”

“It’s a monster. There are probably more outside. We need to get out somehow… if we can.” He pauses and then shakes his head.

“Shit.”

“Those things aren’t even real,” someone says.

“You just killed someone!” someone else shouts. The shouting grows until it evens out.

“You’re bleeding,” he hears someone else say. “Is anyone here a doctor?”

“I know some first aid,” someone says. A man steps forward. Before they can do anything else, another monster bursts through the doors and then stops abruptly.

“Well isn’t this clever,” it says, and then notices that Sam is holding Edgar’s head in his hands. The demon pales and tries to retreat, but he’s stuck in the trap.

“That,” Sam says, pointing at the man, “is a demon. It’s possessing a man’s body.”

The room is silent again.

“Goddamnit, let me out!” the demon shouts. Sam laughs. It’s always funny when a demon takes the lord’s name in vain.

“Don’t you mean Lucifer damnit?” he tries. The demon glares at him. Sam sighs. He now understands how difficult it is for Dean to joke around when there’s no audience. That doesn’t mean that Dean’s jokes are funny—they aren’t by a long shot—but he can at least appreciate a tough crowd.

Since the demon refuses to respond, Sam takes a decisive course of action and begins to exorcise the demon. He wonders what he looks like: talking to a so-called demon, holding a man’s severed hand in one hand and machete in the other. There is a knife and a gun lying on the floor, as well as a trail of pins scattered along the way. He must look insane. He supposes such is the nature of his work.

With the last words, he finishes the exorcism and the room is consumed by black smoke. It swirls around the ceiling for a few seconds before it bursts into flames and the demon returns to hell.

He turns back to the group of reunion-goers.

“So, uh… if you could all head behind the stage, that’d be great.” His request is met with shocked silence. He sighs and then walks over to where his gun is lying on the ground, bends down—wincing as his knees creak and his neck aches—sets the Leviathan’s head on the ground, picks up the gun, flicks the safety on, and tucks it in his waistband, before picking the head up and straightening up.

This was surreal. He had just cut the head off a leviathan in front of thirty strangers, who were all staring at him. Worst, he knew that this was only the beginning and that there were at likely more monsters outside. Even worse yet, more humans were due to arrive and they would find the school locked. The monsters waiting outside would likely pick them off as easy targets.

He couldn’t find his knife.


End file.
